Master of War

by David Gilman

  And once again Blackstone’s instincts told him not to wait too long to find out. Sooner or later he must seize his own destiny.

  The minstrels’ music lilted across the hall as Blackstone fidgeted, squirming inside as he remembered Christiana trying to teach him the courtliness of the dance: men and women facing each other, three steps back, a bow, forward, take the lady’s hand, three more lightly taken steps, a pause, a faltering stutter of a walk in Blackstone’s case, clumsy and uncoordinated, leading the lady by the hand, keep going, keep going, now pause again, turn in the opposite direction, walk, turn, face your partner! Thomas! You’re like a wandering cow! Enough had been enough.

  While Christiana danced Blackstone quietly eased away into the night air. One of de Harcourt’s dogs followed him, perhaps as tired of the music as was Blackstone. He looked across the glit­tering sky and the frost that settled across the landscape. Sentries stood at their posts and the world seemed to have eased into silence. Moonlight illuminated the silhouettes of the forests but their darkness soon absorbed what light there was. If he were to defend this castle, he decided, he would cut back the trees another hundred yards from the north gate and use the timber to build another palisade beyond the outer moat. Defence was everything when facing an enemy, and King Edward had proved that when he chose his ground to fight. All the lessons Blackstone had learnt this past year were clear in his mind and he knew instinctively that he would use them again when he eventually left this place. The dog sat at his side as Blackstone stroked its velvety ears, but he felt it tense, its muscles shivering in anticipation. Blackstone looked along the passageways; the shadows showed no sign of movement, yet he knew the darkness held someone.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called.

  The dog uttered a low rumbling growl as Blackstone braced himself for any sudden attack.

  ‘If you please, sir, hold the dog. I don’t wish you any harm,’ a young voice answered from somewhere ahead.

  Blackstone comforted the dog, and took hold of its broad leather collar. ‘Then come forward and show yourself,’ he replied.

  A small figure stepped from the darkness into a shaft of moon­light; it was a boy.

  ‘The dog could pull me down,’ the boy said.

  ‘I have him, you come forward and give him your scent.’

  The boy came closer, his arm extended towards the dog’s nose. It was a pageboy who, despite his fear of the dog, had stepped forward confidently on Blackstone’s command. The dog whined, strained at the collar and then, tail wagging, licked the boy’s hand.

  The pale light kept the boy’s features indistinct. ‘Who are you?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘My name is Guillaume Bourdin,’ the boy answered, and gazed up at Blackstone’s scarred face, made to look even more vicious by the shadows.

  ‘And who do you serve?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘Countess de Harcourt had me placed with Lord Henri Livay,’ the boy answered.

  Blackstone gazed at him, there was something about him that seemed familiar, but he had no idea what it was.

  ‘All right, Master Bourdin, why aren’t you with the other pages in the stable? Isn’t that where you’re supposed to be while the squires dine with their masters?’

  ‘I saw you training, Sir Thomas, but I could not approach you without being seen, and so I waited for a moment when I might thank you and tell you how pleased I am that you have recovered so well from your terrible wounds.’

  ‘I don’t know you, boy, so why would you need to thank me? And what do you know of my wounds?’

  ‘I was at the castle at Noyelles when you were brought there after the battle. And before that you tried to help my master and spared my life. And so I will always be in your debt, Sir Thomas.’

  Blackstone realized it was the boy who had guarded the wounded knight concealed behind the curtain. The incident seemed so long ago.

  ‘Surely your master couldn’t have survived those wounds?’ said Blackstone, already knowing the answer.

  ‘No, Sir Thomas, he died less than an hour after you left the castle.’

  ‘How long did you serve him as a page?’

  ‘Nearly four years. I’m almost eleven now.’

  ‘And so Countess Blanche placed you with a new lord. Who did you say?’

  ‘My Lord Henri Livay,’ the boy said, his smile telling Blackstone that Blanche de Harcourt had been careful in the boy’s placement.

  ‘Is he a good master?’

  ‘He is, Sir Thomas. He is kind and I’m learning quickly.’

  ‘Does his squire beat you?’

  ‘Only when I fail in my duty.’

  ‘Is that often?’

  ‘No, Sir Thomas, I am determined to serve well and with courage.’

  ‘You have courage already,’ Blackstone said. ‘I saw that for myself back at Noyelles. I’m pleased that you’ve been placed under such good care as that of Lord Livay and that you will learn all the skills to become a good squire,’ Blackstone said, feeling a satisfied warmth that out of all the slaughter and pain, this boy had survived and been given the chance to serve an honourable master.

  ‘All right, get back to the others before the squires return and check on you. Obey them and learn, young Master Guillaume. It seems we have both been given a second chance to change our lives.’

  The boy bowed and turned away, disappearing quickly into the shadows, using the darkness to mask his return. The boy’s instincts serve him well, Blackstone thought, and then stepped back himself into the darkness offered by a pillar as a servant opened the door, spilling a yellow glow from inside the great hall. The musicians had fallen silent as the servant looked left and right. Blackstone stepped forward, allowing the man to see him.

  ‘Sir Thomas, the ladies have retired and my lord commands me to take you to the library.’

  Blackstone followed the man and was ushered into the candle­lit room. The fire’s blaze threw its warmth into the small room and cast the men’s shadows behind them onto the walls, making them appear even more threatening than Blackstone felt them to be.

  ‘You continue to show bad manners, Thomas,’ de Harcourt said. ‘A social inferior does not leave his host’s table until given permission to do so. I’ll not be embarrassed in front of my friends again, you understand?’

  Blackstone bowed his head. ‘Please accept my apologies, lord. I thought my presence at your table had outstayed its welcome.’

  ‘He has an answer for everything,’ said William de Fossat. ‘Were he not knighted by a Prince I’d have the impertinence beaten out of him.’

  No one else spoke, but they held glasses of wine in their hands and gazed towards the Englishman in their midst. Most seemed less concerned about Blackstone’s presence than their aggressive companion, de Fossat.

  ‘But a Prince has honoured him,’ said de Harcourt, ‘and that is why we have agreed to allow him among us. Sit down, Thomas; we want to talk to you. And you’ll speak freely, understood?’

  Blackstone nodded and sat on a bench to face his inquisitors.

  ‘You’re being taught swordsmanship,’ one of the men asked.

  ‘I am, lord.’

  ‘And the lance?’

  ‘No, lord. No lance. I see no purpose.’

  The murmur of disapproval made it obvious that Blackstone had no understanding of how a man-at-arms should fight.

  Henri Livay smiled indulgently. ‘You see no purpose? A knight is often measured by his prowess with a lance when he rides in the lists.’

  ‘I’ve never seen a tournament, though I’ve heard noblemen and men-at-arms have died from their injuries when they joust. It seems a waste of a good fighting man – dying just to wear pride on your sleeve.’ Blackstone’s comments made the men look at each other in disbelief, but he knew his antagonism was justified. ‘A lance is a useless weapon on horseback. You never reached us with your lances. We killed your horses. We dug pits and we pulled you down. My lords, the day of the lance is finished unless it is held on t
he ground by two or three men and used to kill charging horses.’

  ‘I’ll not have a bastard archer sit there and talk of damned tactics and tell me how he slaughtered us!’ shouted de Fossat.

  ‘Shame! Shame on you, Jean! You bring this butcher into our circle of friendship?’ another challenged de Harcourt.

  De Harcourt raised a hand to pacify their anger. ‘Does he not speak the truth?’ he said calmly. ‘How many of us reached their lines? And those who did, what weapons did we use? Eh? Sword, mace and axe.’

  ‘And it wasn’t enough,’ added another. The men began argu­ing until one of them stood and strode towards Black­stone. He wore a dark blue cloak, edged in gold braid with an ermine collar. He had wealth and authority and was used to showing both. Like most of the men in the room he was shorter than Blackstone by nearly six inches, but his bulk was muscle and his stocky appearance carried the menace of a man used to close-quarter battle. That’s a powerful man, Thomas, Christiana had told him when she had pointed him out earlier. Lord de Graville is a close friend of Sir Godfrey’s, but he didn’t go over to the English.

  ‘Listen to me, boy. There’s a code of chivalry that we hold as dear to us as the lance. A knight will always carry both into battle,’ he said, the spittle from his disgust clinging to his beard.

  Blackstone let the others mutter their agreement, but de Harcourt stayed silent. He had given his pupil free rein. If Black­stone was cowed by these men then he was little more than a worthless yeoman who could no longer draw a war bow. If he had the making of a fighting man he would defend himself using his brain and his tongue as his weapons. So far, Jean de Harcourt noted, Blackstone had defied his enemies in the room.

  ‘I believe I understand honour, my lords. My own sworn lord told me that a man is measured by his honour and loyalty. But chivalry?’

  ‘Aye!’ Louis de Vitry shouted. ‘A knight’s chivalry is his birth­right and duty.’

  Blackstone allowed a moment to pass. There was no point in jumping into the angry fray, he knew that choosing his words was as important as choosing his ground for a fight. ‘I’m a coarse man from a plain background, taught by my father to use a war bow. But what I see of chivalry is like a cloak that hides a leper’s body. What kind of chivalry was it that caused you to trample down your own peasant infantry and put your own bowmen to the sword? If that’s chivalry I’ve no use for it. I’ll fight to the death for my King and my friends around me. I’ll kill because I want my enemy dead, and that can’t be disguised as anything else.’

  For a moment there was little more than the sound of the men’s laboured breathing. It was incomprehensible that a base English archer had made such impertinent comments. Blackstone didn’t flinch under their glare.

  De Vitry got up from his chair. ‘Jean, I’ll not stay in the same room as this vile creature. Perhaps we have overestimated the King of England for allowing this low fellow to be honoured.’

  De Harcourt stood quickly and blocked his friend from reach­ing the door.

  ‘Louis, we must let him speak. He’s not one of us, he never can be. But what he did was an act of great courage. He has suffered his own loss in battle and he’s endured wounds that would have many of us still lying in our beds. He’s no fool and he has the making of a swordsman. Killing the English is not enough. We need to understand them.’

  Louis de Vitry, barely six years older than Blackstone, but, like de Harcourt, a son and heir of one of Normandy’s greatest families, allowed his friend’s words to calm him. He returned to his seat by the fire, but kept his gaze on the flames.

  De Harcourt faced Blackstone. ‘Impertinence such as yours is something we have little experience of, Thomas.’

  ‘I apologize, lord. I don’t mean to offend. I can only speak plainly.’

  ‘The thing is, Thomas, you never sound as though you mean it when you apologize,’ said de Harcourt without anger.

  One of the older men refilled his glass, but did not offer Black­stone a drink. ‘We fought with a ferocity that should have swept your English King and his army back into the ditch that separates our two countries. Our humiliation is more painful than the wounds we endured,’ he said.

  The silence indicated that Blackstone should answer. ‘Our King warned us of your ferocity, my Lord de Mainemares. He said you were the greatest army in Christendom and that you would crush us if we faltered.’

  ‘The question still remains: why did you not falter against such overwhelming odds?’ Guy de Ruymont asked.

  Blackstone could find no obvious reason for being questioned but knew that his answers would be important to these touchy and violent men. ‘We had a great advantage over you.’

  ‘Yes, you had archers that slaughtered from a distance. There’s no honour in that,’ said one of the other men.

  ‘If you had broken through our lines, as you did in places, then you would have slaughtered us archers because we carried no means of defence against you. And that’s why we killed you as quickly as we could and without mercy, just as your King raised the Oriflamme against us. Would you have stopped killing us had we surrendered? I don’t think so. And our knights were better suited for the fight than you,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘You bastard!’ de Fossat spat and made a move towards Black­stone, who stood quickly to defend himself.

  ‘William!’ de Harcourt commanded, making the impetuous knight hold back.

  No one spoke for a moment. Blackstone knew he had gone too far. ‘Not that they were braver. But their courage had been tested many times. They were experienced from the Scottish wars and they were committed to their King.’

  ‘And we were not?’ said Henri Livay.

  ‘You were not, my lord, not in the same way.’

  ‘Christ’s suffering, Jean. Why do we have this murdering butcher here at all?’ said another nobleman.

  ‘Because,’ de Graville interrupted, ‘he was there, facing our might. He could see the battle and how it went. And he’s an English­man who thinks differently than us. Explain yourself.’

  ‘I don’t have the wisdom of a King or a Prince, or any of the men-at-arms who fought you. I can tell you what I heard and what I saw, lord. My King chose his ground. You gave your bowmen no protection. You were impatient to kill us.’

  ‘What in God’s name does that mean? You taunt us with insults now, Blackstone?’ de Fossat yelled.

  ‘I mean that you did not serve your King as we served ours.’

  This time it was the elder Lord de Mainemares who snatched at de Fossat’s arm to hold back his lunge. ‘Control yourself, damn you! Or go and sit with the women and their tittle-tattle. This man and those with him caused us great slaughter. Our nobles are held to ransom, our King licks his wounds behind the walls of Paris. We can learn from this humble archer.’

  ‘Who, as Jean said, has proved his bravery as much as any man here,’ Henri Livay acknowledged.

  ‘And is no longer a bowman,’ Guy de Ruymont said. ‘Tell us what you mean, Master Blackstone.’

  Blackstone controlled his breathing, steadying the panic that threatened to take hold of him as he faced the Norman war lords.

  ‘My lords, from what I understand, you fight for your honour, and your honour alone. You fight together as families, as men who are kin to each other and who compete with others to see who can kill us English first. You won’t be denied your day of battle – and it was this impatience that killed you.’

  The men stared at Blackstone, as if chastised by him.

  Blackstone didn’t wait for any further question or challenge. He needed to tell these mighty Frenchmen how their own arrogance had caused them to lose. ‘We were rallied by my sovereign lord. He spoke to us all. He held us close and we fought for him and for him alone.’ They were silent. Not one man turned his eyes from Blackstone. What he said smothered their pride. ‘Our King was the greater King,’ he said, and waited for another outburst. And it came immediately.

  ‘You will not insult the King of France!�
�� said Louis de Vitry harshly.

  The men’s voices rose in anger again, each shouting over the other, but Blackstone had faced down men like these thundering towards him riding their great war horses. Their angry words were harmless. Only Jean de Harcourt and Lord de Graville stayed silent, a glance between them that Blackstone noticed. A glance that told they knew the young knight’s words were the truth.

  Blackstone stood, and for some reason he did not understand, the men fell silent.

  ‘A great King does not lose a great battle,’ he said quietly.

  He paused and then bowed to Jean de Harcourt, who nodded, giving permission for Blackstone to leave. There was nothing more the young archer could say that night.

  As the doors closed behind him the cold night air chilled the sweat-drenched shirt that clung to his body. He finally let the coiled tension seep away and steadied himself against the wall, took a deep, slow breath and for a moment tried to understand what had just happened in that room. He had challenged and probably insulted men of rank who knew his identity, who were probably still his enemies. But no one had struck him, no one demanded of Jean de Harcourt that he be cast out from these walls. Blackstone had stood his ground and given no quarter. Strength surged through him.

  A change had taken place within him.

  And the taste of it made him smile.

  15

  Jean de Harcourt stood at the window and looked down to where grooms and pages prepared mounts for the day’s hunt. To one side, almost out of sight of the early morning activity, he saw Blackstone going through his training ritual. The English­man was there every day and he had secretly watched him since his guests had arrived. The sense of loss from not training with Blackstone was something he had not anticipated. A master—pupil camaraderie had been forged between the two men, who were obliged to live within the same castle walls. He had given Thomas Blackstone freedom of speech at the previous night’s meeting in the library and the Englishman had stripped bare his guests’ emotions. Now he wondered whether those men would rebel against the long-term plans that he and de Graville had considered for Thomas Black­stone. There was still much to discuss with the barons, but they needed to tread carefully, for the betrayal of even their conversations meant certain death at the hands of King Philip. The English King had promised much, but still the war had not ended and the Normans needed to control their own destiny. De Harcourt’s plans were little more than a will-o’-the-wisp, a restive spirit that could not be captured – so too his ideas for Blackstone. They were as yet unformed, but carried the hope that they might prove feasible. Having a young, trained man-at-arms in the heart of Normandy who carried the favour of the English King might well, in good time, serve King Edward’s interests and the French who sided with him. But not yet. To think of using Blackstone now as an instrument of their ambition was premature.